On Being the Mother of a Fashionista

Far and away the most emotional and potentially meltdown-inducing component of my three-and-a-half-year-old daughter’s existence is her wardrobe. She is in a near-constant state of pondering outfits, trying on clothes, and fretting, weeping and screaming if they are not “just right.” In this case I know the apple fell far from the tree because I frequently wear whatever I threw over the chair the night before and place comfort above all else—wrinkles and mismatched colors be damned.

My little fashionista even likes to wear dresses to bed. This is fine with us; it makes the morning routine that much quicker—fewer tears over wardrobe planning. But last night she had that rare “accident” in her bed, so in the dark of night we managed to replace her soaked dress with a long-sleeved Hello Kitty t-shirt and leggings, fooling ourselves into believing that the all-pink ensemble would be given the thumbs up in the light of day.

Come morning, it passed muster for a while. Then she decided (as we were walking out the door to go to school) that she needed to have a dress on under the shirt. So back upstairs to her closet we went, and she chose a little white number with pink flowers. Then she refused to put it on if it involved taking off the t-shirt. We tried to explain the dynamics of removing one article of clothing in order for it to go over the other article of clothing, but by this point she was obsessing over her tiny (1/2-inch-tall) kitty needing a pink collar and tag, like our real cat. So while my husband was toiling away at a microscopic kitty collar–and the clock was ticking—we somehow managed to get the shirt off, the dress on, the shirt back on. Leopard shoes, check. White fluffy jacket, check. Tiny kitty with tiny collar, check. Then they’re off, out the door, into the car.

Two minutes later, they walked back in, the little diva in full sobbing mode. “I DON’T LIKE THIS DRESS! IT’S NOT COZY!” Acknowledging that we had been fully played like a couple of cheap guitars, we relented and tracked down her favorite floral dress, which had just finished drying after being soaked by pee mere hours before. The skies parted, the sun came out, happiness returned, and off to school she went. My little fashionista.

Comments (6)

This takes me back to the days of little Lucy. We even started leaving clothes left by the clothes fairy. In the end it was to expensive to keep up the new outfit three times a week, just to make our mornings easer.
Now 16 she tells me what to wear how I should wear. She also tells me what not wear. The joy of having a fashion divia in the house.

Like you my 4 year old apple fell far far far from the tree! She tells me not to wear my black pointy shoes because they are “”witch shoes” (little does she know those things make me feel like a kick ass bitch 🙂 and she also refuses to wear anything that might be worn by a boy at anytime! Unless you count the ironman costume!